Random Acts

by Spindler, Erica

  “Does that happen often?”

  He shook his head. “Not so much. People come to New Orleans for the show. You know, for the thrill of peeking behind the curtain.”

  That they did. And a lot of them parked their inhibitions at the airport and went crazy. She glanced down at her notes. “You think one of them might have come back, shot Desi?”

  Mustang blinked against tears. “I don’t know. Maybe. But why? He didn’t do anything to them.”

  “Easy enough to find out if they were booked or let off with a warning,” Angelo said, looking at her.

  Micki nodded, although she didn’t think some drunken jackass had done this. It felt way too personal. “Any other ideas who might have killed him?”

  He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. “This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone.”

  Angelo pressed the man. “Think, Mustang. About the people in Desi’s circle. Family, friends, club regulars even. Someone who might have had a beef with him. Does anyone come to mind?”

  “No, everyone loved Desi.” His voice broke. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. This is a complete disaster. Desiree was the star of the show! Just brilliant. And it’s Carnival. There’s the upcoming ball masque, the fashion show, all the tourists!” He dropped his head into his hands. “What do I do now? I’ll have to cancel everything.”

  Micki made a note. “Was Desi married?”

  “Would have been if same sex marriages were legal in Louisiana. It’s so unfair.”

  “So, he had a partner?”

  “Had. They broke up recently.”

  Angelo took over. “Was the break up acrimonious? What came between them?”

  “Late nights. The groupies and constant temptations.”

  “Desi was unfaithful,” Micki murmured, “is that what you’re saying?”

  “Just a little.”

  Micki cocked an eyebrow. “A ‘little’ unfaithful? What does that mean?”

  He looked momentarily nonplused, then said, “As little as possible.”

  Angelo cleared his throat to cover a snort; Micki ignored him and went on. “So, it was an acrimonious split?”

  “Rog couldn’t have done it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Took a job in Memphis. That played a part in the break-up. Desi refused to leave the show. It was his life.”

  “You have Rog’s contact information?”

  “I do.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “He’ll be devastated.”

  Micki wasn’t so sure about that, but as Hank had pointed out, she wasn’t much of a cheerleader for human nature. She shook her head, thinking of her friend. How the man had done thirty years on the force and maintained his positive attitude toward humanity, she didn’t know. But it gave her something to aspire to.

  “Was his partner, Rog, a performer, too?”

  “Just an accountant.”

  Micki fought a chuckle at the way he said it, as if he couldn’t imagine anything worse. “We’ll need to question everyone who was working last night.”

  He nodded. “The same crew is in tonight, with some slight changes in bar staff. The cast, of course, is the same.” He stopped, brought a trembling hand to his lips. “No, that’s not right, is it? Desi won’t be here.”

  “Did Desiree have an understudy?”

  “Yes, Cherry.” His eyes welled with tears. “And you’re absolutely right. The show must go on.”

  That wasn’t why she had asked the question, but she didn’t correct him. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Desiree that might help us find his killer?”

  “I don’t know what. He was happy. Well-liked within the community. Financially secure.”

  “We’ll need a timeline from you—when the bar opens and closes, times the staff rotates, time of final lock-up and who was scheduled for that duty last night.”

  “You can’t possibly think the murderer is one of us?”

  “Why wouldn’t we, Mustang?”

  “Because we’re family here.”

  “Mustang! Oh my God, I just heard!”

  They turned. A slight man in skinny jeans and platform sneakers rushed into the club.

  “Chuck!” Mustang stood and went to embrace his friend.

  “I’m devastated,” the man said. “I can’t believe this happened. It’s so awful!”

  “I was the one who found her.” The club owner’s voice broke. “I came in . . . there was blood in the back hallway. . . I followed the trail and--” He bit the last back, visibly pulling himself together. “Come meet Detectives Dare and Angelo. They promised they’re going to find the one who did this.”

  He led him over to the booth. “Detectives, this is the performer I told you about. Desiree’s understudy, Cherry Chablis.”

  Micki stood. “I’m Dare. That’s Angelo.”

  “Hey,” he said, folding, then unfolding his arms, almost as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

  “Did I hear Mustang call you Chuck?”

  “Yeah, Cherry’s my stage name. My legal name’s Chuck.”

  “Chuck what?”

  He looked at her, then quickly away. “Chandler.”

  “And it’s cool if we call you Chuck?”

  “Sure, that’s cool.”

  “Desiree’s understudy,” she murmured. “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mustang said Desiree was brilliant in her roles. I would imagine it’s tough always being second.”

  “Not really.”

  “No?” His gaze slid sideways a second time, and her right eye began to twitch. “Not jealous at all?”

  “Not at all. Desi was my friend.”

  “That’s good.” Micki smiled slightly. “Things can get so competitive in situations like this.”

  “Not between us,” Chuck said. “We were very close.”

  Mustang stepped in. “See, Detective, I told you. We’re family here at the Me-Oh-My.”

  Micki ignored him and went on. “So close, you could pop into her dressing room and visit just . . . whenever?”

  “Like I said, we were close.”

  “You ever get the chance to fill in for her?” Angelo asked.

  Obviously off-balance, Chuck swung toward Angelo. “What?”

  “Did Desiree ever miss a performance?”

  “Never.”

  At the edge in the understudy’s tone, a subtle undercurrent of bitterness mixed with longing, Micki just . . . knew. Chuck had been driven to murder the object of his envy.

  Same as Bitty Vanderlund had.

  All she had to do was prove it.

  “Well, now you’ll get your chance to prove you’re as good a performer as she was.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

  “But true.”

  Mustang drew a sharp breath. “Detective—”

  “Can you honestly say it hasn’t crossed your mind?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Chandler? Yes, it has crossed your mind?”

  He looked between her and Angelo, then beseechingly at Mustang. “That’s not wrong, is it? For it to have crossed my mind?”

  “You’re only human,” Angelo offered. “Desiree was the star you longed to be. It’d be natural to be jealous.”

  “I’ll be as good as Desi was, ’Stang. I promise. I won’t let you down.”

  “When did you see Desiree last?” Micki asked.

  Chuck shifted from one foot to the other. “Last night, of course. I was here for every performance. That was my job, to be here.” Again, he looked toward his boss, as if for confirmation. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I didn’t say it did. Why would I?”

  Sweat beaded his upper lips. “It just sounded like you were . . . suggesting—”

  “Suggesting what, Mr. Chandler? That you knew something about Desiree’s
murder? Do you know something you’re not telling us?”

  He took a slight step backward. Micki noticed the room had gone pin-drop silent.

  “Of course . . . not.”

  “What time did you leave?” Angelo asked.

  “The same time as everyone else.”

  “Everyone else?” Micki repeated.

  “Well . . . not everyone.” He wiped his lip. “I couldn’t have.”

  Angelo cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  Three slow blinks. Micki counted them. His eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder. “Desi must have been . . . I’m assuming, he must have been . . . the last, you know . . . here.”

  Micki looked him dead in the eyes. “Did I say he was murdered last night?”

  “Wasn’t he?” He looked sick. “I guess I just assumed, because . . . I don’t know why.”

  “Last night, did you leave alone?”

  “I don’t remember. I . . . yes, I did.”

  “I thought you said you left with everyone else?”

  “I meant, around the same time as everyone else.”

  “So, someone must have seen you leaving? Someone?” Micki looked toward the bar, the crew who had worked the night before, from one person to the other in question. Their expressions began to register suspicion.

  “I don’t feel so well,” Chuck said, taking a step backward. “I need to sit down. I’ll just--”

  He turned and ran.

  Micki took off after him. He moved really fast for a guy in platforms, darting past the officer stationed at the club’s entrance and into the crowd clustered beyond the crime tape.

  But his luck didn’t hold. The famously derelict French Quarter streets proved his undoing. He pitched forward, landing sprawled on the pavement.

  Micki reached him, pinned him down with a knee to his back. “You have the right to remain silent—” she said, wrenching one arm behind his back, snapping on the cuff.

  “Whatever you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

  She continued, cuffing his other wrist. “Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it!” Chuck cried. “It just happened!”

  “Do you understand these rights?” she asked again, as Angelo sauntered up, two uniforms with him.

  “Yes! Yes, I understand! But you have to believe me, it was an accident!”

  “Dude,” she said, “you shot him four times, including once to the back of the head while he was down. That was no accident...”

  “But I never meant . . . I promise, I—” He started to sob.

  Angelo bent and helped him to his feet. “So, why’d you do it, man?”

  “Desi had everything . . . he wouldn’t share. I just . . . suddenly, I couldn’t . . . I just . . . snapped.”

  Snapped.

  Same as Vanderlund. Too fricking weird to be a coincidence.

  Chapter Ten

  7:10 P.M.

  Micki sat at her desk. The sun had nearly completed its descent and the shift in lighting fit her darkening mood.

  “Good news,” Angelo said, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “The major gave us a pass tonight. Job well done, he said.”

  “I feel like we didn’t do anything.”

  “You serious?” He shrugged into the jacket. “Murder, confession, arrest. Case cleared. Times two. It doesn’t get better than that.”

  She looked away, then back. “Something’s wrong with this. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

  “Okay, I don’t. Look, it’s weird, hell yeah. But so what? Life is weird and everybody is freaking nuts.” He shook his head. “Two murders, two days. Both closed. We’re a helluva team. Let’s grab a beer at Shannon’s to celebrate.”

  “You go. I’m beat.”

  “C’mon, Dare. A beer and some backslapping will do you good.”

  “So would sleep.” She forced a smile. “Really, I’m toast.”

  “Your loss, partner.”

  She watched him go, then turned to their report. Neither the victims nor the perpetrators had known each other. They travelled in different circles. Big time different. The modes of death, also different.

  But in a bizarre way, everything else pointed to connected crimes. Both victims were queens. Both killed by a rival. In each case a crime of passion in which the perps claimed to have snapped.

  She and Angelo had missed something. They must have.

  But what?

  Micki got to her feet and grabbed her jacket. She hadn’t been lying when she told Angelo she was beat. But she wasn’t going home to rest.

  Chapter Eleven

  7:50 P.M.

  A sign announcing Tonight’s Show Canceled hung on Club Me-Oh-My’s entrance, accompanied by black netting and a mourning wreath. Micki tried the door, found it locked, and peered through the window. A couple dozen or so folks stood at the bar, more were seated at tables or milling about. She spotted Mustang and knocked.

  He came to the door, peeked out. She held up her shield, though from his expression she knew he recognized her.

  He cracked open the door. “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “I was hoping to ask you and your employees a few more questions.”

  “I thought you got your man?”

  The bitterness in his tone didn’t really surprise her. In a way, uncovering the killer from among them made her the enemy. “I just want to make certain we didn’t—” Micki bit that back and started again. “I want to get this right. I know you do, too.”

  He cracked the door a bit wider. “Go on.”

  “Were you surprised about Cherry?”

  “Yes! My God, I was stunned.”

  “Did you suspect Cherry was jealous of Desiree?”

  “Sure I did. Show business is tough, especially when you’re always playing second fiddle. But kill over it?” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “We’re a close community. We protect each other. We hold each other up. This . . . no. Not possible.”

  “I have doubts, too.”

  His jaw dropped. “But . . . I don’t— Cherry confessed.”

  “To pulling the trigger, yes. But I have a strong feeling there’s something else at play here.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here tonight. Hoping to figure it out.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing whether she was telling the truth. Finally, he nodded and let her into the club.

  “We’re in mourning, Detective. We lost two friends today.”

  “I understand. I’ll be respectful, I promise.”

  Micki circulated through the club. Some were resentful of her presence, others suspicious. Most ignored her or were blatantly rude.

  She didn’t belong. They were angry. And hurting.

  Micki slid onto a barstool. The bartender looked so much like Tom Cruise she did a double take. “Can I get an ice water?” she asked.

  “Sure.” A moment later, he set the glass in front of her. “Tough crowd.”

  “I don’t blame them. I’m an intrusion.”

  “Then why’re you here?”

  “My own peace of mind.”

  “I’m Jack, by the way.”

  “Micki Dare. Good to meet you.” She eyed his martini. “Cosmo?”

  “I’m not working.” He lifted his glass. “Want one?”

  “I am working.”

  He sipped the pink drink. “Actually, these were Cherry’s . . . Chuck’s, favorite. I’m celebrating him.”

  “Chuck’s not the one who’s dead.”

  “No, but he won’t be drinking one for a very long time.” Jack twirled the glass; the motion created a swirling, pink tornado. He stopped abruptly and the liquid sloshed over the side. “We were friends, Chuck and I.”

  “Were?”

  “Are,” he corrected. “Although it seems like that’s ending now as well.” He took a sip, then another. “We like
d the same things. Saints football, mystery novels. Stuff like that.”

  “Chuck ever talk about Desiree?”

  “Some.”

  “Did she seem angry at him?”

  “Not at Desi. More frustrated at always being second banana. The situation did sort of suck. But no big deal. We all get frustrated, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think Chuck did it.”

  He said it defiantly, and Micki looked at him in surprise. “Even though he admitted she did?”

  “Yeah, even though.”

  “Okay, make a believer out of me. You have a theory?”

  “Mind control.”

  She almost laughed, choking it back at the last moment. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am. Maybe somebody brainwashed him? That kind of shit happens.”

  “On TV.”

  “In real life,” he countered. “Ever watch Fox News?”

  She laughed at his attempt at humor. “Okay, I’ll bite. You have somebody in mind?”

  “Chuck’s shrink. There was something about her I didn’t like. Made my skin crawl.”

  “Chuck was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  She didn’t, not anymore. Though she’d been told on more than one occasion she should. Usually about the time the word crazy was uttered and immediately followed with the word bitch.

  “Do you know what Chuck was seeing this shrink about?”

  “Same thing we all do, our demons.” Micki cocked an eyebrow in question and he went on, “C’mon, Detective, you can’t guess? Our lifestyle comes with a lot of baggage. We don’t fit the two cars, two kids, house in the burbs model. Or any of the other socially ‘acceptable’ models for that matter. Ours comes with rejection, bullying and for some of us, physical violence.” He paused. “Even from our own families.”

  Sad as it was, she knew it was true. “This shrink—you got a name?”

  “Yeah. Renee Blackwood.”

  Renee Blackwood, the same shrink Vanderlund had been seeing.

  That was it. The connection between the two crimes.

  Chapter Twelve

  10:30 P.M.

  Micki dialed Angelo from the car. He answered, sounding sleepy.